Show Me the Way Page 2

  “Coming right up.” He fills a glass with ice and soda, adds a chunk of lime, and hands it to her.

  She glances around the empty barroom. “This place is a ghost town. Do you ever get any customers?”

  “Business picks up on the weekends, when all the Jefferson College parents come into town for football games.” He chuckles. “And I’m here to tell you, parents of college kids are a rowdy bunch. They’re definitely living their lives vicariously through their children.”

  Presley thinks back to when she was in college at the University of Alabama. Her mother never missed a home football game. Renee was the life of the party, embarrassingly so at times. “I’ll take that as a warning, since I’m staying through the weekend.”

  He fidgets with a remote control, turning on soft jazz music. “So, what brings you to Hope Springs? You’re way too young to have a child in college.”

  Presley laughs out loud. “No children.” She debates how much to tell him. He’ll think she’s lost her mind if she confesses she flew here on a whim to track down a lead regarding her birth mother. Running a finger around the rim of her glass, she says, “I just needed to get away. These past few months have been a challenge with Mom’s death and settling her estate. Now, with the leaves changing, seemed like a pleasant time to come to the mountains.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “Good question.” She drains the rest of her soda. “I have a bachelor’s degree from the University of Alabama, but I’ve been handling my mother’s affairs for the last three years. Now that she’s gone, I’ll have to figure out a new direction for my life.” Removing her wallet from her purse, she slaps her credit card on the bar. “I should freshen up before dinner. What’s the food like here?”

  “Jameson’s offers American contemporary dishes with the freshest local ingredients. Cecily, our head chef, is amazing. I can vouch for every item on the menu. I’ve tried them all.”

  He picks up her card and studies it. “Presley Ingram? As in daughter of Renee Ingram?”

  “The one and only,” Presley says. “Are you a musician?”

  His expression becomes guarded. “No, but everyone knows Renee Ingram. She’s handled some of country music’s greatest.”

  “Right.” Everyone knows the artists, but only musicians hoping to break into the business know the producers.

  He runs his finger over her name on the credit card. “Did your mom name you after—”

  “The King? Yes, unfortunately.” Presley rolls her eyes. “Mom was quite the fan. I’m thankful she didn’t name me Elvis.”

  Laughing, he hands her the credit card without processing the charge. “Drinks are on the house.”

  She stares at the credit card without taking it. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Please. It’s my way of expressing sympathy for your loss. I didn’t realize Renee had passed away. That’s what I get for avoiding the news. It’s a sad day for country music.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say.” Rising from the barstool, she slings her bag over her shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

  “I’ll be right here all weekend. I’m Everett, by the way.”

  She smiles at him in parting. While he seems like a decent guy, Presley’s people reader is screaming at her that he’s hiding something. He’s a bartender with what sounds like a troubled past with alcohol. She just buried her mother. She doesn’t need that kind of headache.

  2

  Everett

  As the evening wears on, Everett tries unsuccessfully to get Presley off his mind. She’s smoking hot with luscious auburn hair and flawless skin. When she stares at him with those gray eyes, it’s as though she’s seeing his soul. But there’s more to her than her looks. Good upbringing. College education. Nice family. She’s the kind of girl guys fall for. Everett reminds himself that he doesn’t need another woman complicating his life.

  He welcomes the distraction when a disorderly group of fishermen enters the bar. They’ve already been in the sauce, down the hall in the game room based on their conversation. He guesses them to be in their late thirties to early forties, settling into middle age with receding hairlines and thickening waistlines. They sit at the bar instead of at one of the many vacant tables. Once seated, they shout their drink orders at him, as though he’s hearing impaired.

  The bald guy at the end of the bar says, “Hey, bartender, change the music. Seriously, dude, who wants to listen to jazz? Turn on some classic rock or R and B.”

  The man next to baldie elbows him in the gut. “Forget R and B. We want country music.”

  Everett tunes into his favorite country station and begins filling their drink requests. The more distinguished of the gentlemen order red wine while the drunkest ask for brown liquor on the rocks.

  A man with a ruddy complexion and turkey neck asks for a Jack on the rocks. “Hey!” The man wags his finger at Everett. “I know you. Aren’t you from Atlanta?”

  “No, sir. North Dakota.” Everett keeps his head lowered as he opens another bottle of pinot noir. The man looks familiar to Everett as well. But he can’t place him.

  When Everett looks up from pouring two glasses of wine, Turkey Neck is studying him closely. “Are you sure we’ve never met? I swear I know you from somewhere.”

  Despite his pounding heart, Everett lifts a shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “I’m sure you’re mistaking me for someone else. I have an average face.”

  Everett turns his back on them, busying himself with wiping down counters. He tries to ignore them, but the fishermen are obnoxious as they try to outbrag one another about their day’s catch.

  Ten minutes pass and Everett assumes Turkey Neck has forgotten him. When he finally faces them again, Turkey Neck is still staring at him. “That’s it!” he says, snapping his fingers. “You’re a musician of some sort. What’s the name of your band?”

  Everett lets out a laugh that sounds more like a snort. “I’m not in a band.”

  Turkey Neck scowls at him. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” He fakes a chuckle. “Don’t you think I’d know if I was in a band?”

  Turkey Neck rests an arm on his ample gut. “Then where are you from in North Dakota?”

  Is this guy for real? Everett says a silent thank you to his elementary teacher when he pulls the state’s capital out of thin air. “Bismarck.”

  Everett is relieved when another fisherman summons him to the end of the bar for a refill. By the time Everett circles back, Turkey Neck has finally forgotten about him and is engrossed in a conversation about college football with the man to his right.

  After several more rounds of drinks, the fishermen pay their tabs and stumble out of the bar into the lounge. It’s nearly ten o’clock by the time Everett finishes cleaning up and closing out the register. When he pokes his head into Jameson’s, much to his disappointment, Presley is nowhere in sight. The fishermen are the only occupants of the restaurant. Seated at the community table, they are all extremely drunk now, shoveling food and sloshing drinks. Everett sneaks through the restaurant to the kitchen without them noticing him.

  Cecily is the only real friend Everett has made since coming to Hope Springs six weeks ago. His attraction to her isn’t sexual. She’s smart and funny and beautiful with blue eyes that light up when she laughs. But she’s crazy in love with a lacrosse coach over at the college. Everett’s friendship with Cecily is based on a mutual appreciation for food and drink.

  She looks up from her clipboard with pinched brow. “Your dinner is in the refrigerator. Lobster-stuffed ravioli for you tonight.” He loves how Cecily takes pity on his limited culinary skills, and saves leftovers for him every night.

  “That sounds delicious.” He peers over her shoulder at the menu on her clipboard. “What’s up? Why so serious?”

  “Stella booked a last-minute cocktail reception for a group of football parents on Friday night. I’ve told her time and again to hire an event planner. I don’t mind
coordinating the food, but it would be nice to have someone on the front end plan the menu and organize the extra staff.”

  “And the alcohol,” Everett adds. “No one told me about the party, and I’m the one who has to provide the booze.”

  “Right.” She pokes his chest with her pencil eraser. “Apparently this group has requested a signature, football-themed cocktail for their party.”

  Ideas flood his brain. “That could be fun. How many people are we talking about?”

  She shoves the clipboard at him. “A hundred.”

  He flips through the menus from past parties. “That’s a large party for such short notice. I have a great recipe for trash can punch.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “You mean fraternity party trash can punch? As in Everclear and Hawaiian Punch?”

  “Yep. The Jefferson College parents love to party. They’ll be all over it.”

  Cecily snatches the clipboard away from him. “You’d better come up with something more original with less alcohol than trash can punch.”

  He retrieves his to-go container from the refrigerator. “I thought Stella was actively looking for an event planner.”

  “She is.” Cecily sighs. “I don’t mean to rag on her. She’s trying, but she can’t find anyone suitable in this town. She needs to recruit from a big city like Richmond or DC.”

  He gives the messy honey-colored bun on top of her head a tug. “Why don’t I come in late morning tomorrow, and we can work up a menu for food and beverage.”

  She smiles up at him. “Really, Everett? That’d be awesome.”

  “I’ll see you around ten,” he says and leaves the kitchen via the veranda to avoid the fishermen.

  Walking the length of the porch, he reenters the building through the main back door. The night clerk is on the phone and Naomi’s face is glued to a computer when he sneaks past the check-in desk. He’s almost to the front door, and he thinks he’s made it when she calls out to him.

  “Hey, Everett! Have you gotten yourself a cell phone yet?”

  He stops in his tracks. She asks him this at least once a week. She knows it irritates him. Whether he owns a cell phone is none of her business. He doesn’t work for Naomi. Stella is his boss. If he doesn’t owe her an explanation, why does he keep giving her one?

  Taking a deep breath, he turns around to face her, but he doesn’t move toward the reception desk. “I told you, Naomi. I’m not getting a cell phone. I’m trying to save money.”

  “But what if we need to reach you?”

  “If you need to reach me, call the extension in Billy’s Bar. That’s where I spend 90 percent of my time. Most days, I arrive early and leave late.”

  “How do you stay connected with your friends and family?” She leans across the counter, as though he’s about to reveal his darkest secret.

  “Through email.” She doesn’t need to know that Everett doesn’t own a computer, that he goes to the library once a week to check his email. “I moved to the mountains for fresh air and clean living. Kicking the social media habit is the first step toward a simpler life. If it’s so important for me to own a phone, the inn can buy me one. But I’m not paying for something I don’t need.”

  When she starts to argue, he cuts her off. “Why are you here so late, Naomi? And where’s Jazz?”

  Naomi glares at him. “She’s asleep in the office, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “It’s a school night. Most six-year-olds are in bed.”

  “Go home, Everett.” She pivots on her heels and disappears into the reservation office.

  He chuckles to himself as he exits the building. What a bully! She can dish it out, but she can’t take it. Why is she working so late when they have a night desk agent and hardly any business?

  There’s a nip in the night air, hinting at the winter ahead. With no reason to hurry, he strolls down the long driveway toward town. He rents a studio apartment in a renovated warehouse two blocks from the farm at the intersection of Marshall and Main. Two of the three remaining apartments in the building are occupied. His landlord, a kindly old man who’s a partner in the law firm downstairs, tried to convince him to rent the corner unit with the stunning view of the mountains. But Everett has no use for three thousand square feet when his list of possessions is short—an air mattress, a stack of plastic drawers that house his clothes, and his guitar.

  His apartment is directly across from Town Tavern, a rowdy hangout for college kids. There’s always a wait for the outdoor sidewalk seating area. On chilly nights like tonight, they put out space heaters to keep their customers warm.

  He throws open the top sash of his only window and straddles the sill with one foot on the iron balcony. He’s accumulated a fan club. They can’t see him with his apartment light off, but they can hear him. Cheers erupt from below when he strums a few chords of his guitar and belts out the first lyrics. Continuing his music career in secret isn’t cutting it for him. Something’s gotta give, sooner rather than later. He came to Hope Springs out of desperation. He was running away, not running toward. Eventually his past will catch up with him.

  3

  Presley

  At seven thirty on Thursday morning, dressed in exercise clothes with her ponytail pulled through the back of a Crimson Tide baseball cap, Presley ventures over to Hillside Drive for her second reconnaissance mission. She parks her Buick sedan rental car in the middle of the block, close enough to see any activity at number 237 without raising the blonde woman’s suspicion. At ten minutes before eight, when the burgundy minivan leaves the driveway, she follows at a safe distance. She assumes the mother will drop her girls at school before continuing on to her workplace. But she’s surprised when the van parks in the side lot of a towering two-story red brick building that appears old enough to be the town’s original high school.

  Presley pulls into a nearby parking space, takes the car out of gear, and tugs the lid of her baseball cap low over her face. Mother and daughters pile out of the minivan and walk together across the parking lot toward the building. Is the mother on staff here? Or is she here to conference with one of the girl’s teachers? Maybe she volunteers in the office a few days a week. The daughters sport matching green uniforms—skirts with jackets over tank tops—with their blonde hair in single braids down their backs. Game day. Will they play at home or away? Presley notices a turf field behind the school with a scoreboard that reads Home of the Hawks.

  She waits forty-five minutes, but the mother never emerges from the building. Returning to the inn, she leaves her car with the valet attendant and stops by the coffee bar in the lobby for a to-go cup of hot brew before continuing out back. A wide veranda extends the width of the building. Breakfast is being served on the side of the porch to her left, while to her right, guests read newspapers and fiddle with their phones in a long line of rocking chairs. A semicircular stone terrace extends from the veranda. Moving to the waist-high wall at the edge of the terrace, Presley stares out across the grounds. While the view of the mountains from her third-floor suite is spectacular, from the terrace, she can better see the other buildings that make up Hope Springs Farm. Closest to her is a large barn constructed out of the same stone as the main building. There’s a tiny cottage with black shutters and an inviting front porch. Farther down the hill from the cottage is a structure that Presley assumes once served as a carriage house. A brick sidewalk stretches between the barn and carriage house from the terrace to a large lake at the base of the mountains. On the shore of the lake, partitioned off by orange fencing, a building of considerable magnitude is under construction.

  Curious, she takes off on foot down the sidewalk. As she draws closer, she can see this new structure is a modern version of the same stone architecture as the main building. She stops at the orange fence and watches a crew of workmen pour concrete to form the base of an outdoor pool.

  There’s a chill in the air, and as she tilts her head back, the sun warms her face. Without a cloud in the cobal
t sky, the weather is autumn perfect.

  A female voice startles her out of her reverie. “What do you think of our future spa?”

  Presley didn’t hear her approach, and she’s surprised to see a woman about her age standing next to her. “Impressive. So, I was right? I guessed a spa, slash, fitness center, slash, pool.”

  The woman adds, “Slash, casual restaurant offering healthy brunches, lunches, and snacks. The pool facility will encompass our natural hot spring.”

  The thought of soaking in a hot spring on a bright autumn day like today brings a smile to Presley’s face. “That’s way cool.”

  “And way warm.” The woman giggles at her own joke. “The wooden hut currently houses the hot spring.” She points at a rickety building at the far end of the construction site. “We’ll demolish the hut, and the spring will be open air to allow guests to enjoy the view. We haven’t decided what to call the complex yet. I figure I’ll know it when I hear it.” She extends her hand to Presley. “I’m Stella Boor, general manager here. Welcome to Hope Springs Farm.”

  Presley takes her hand. “Everett mentioned you. You’re Billy Jameson’s daughter.”

  “I am.” Stella’s smile spreads across her lips, connecting high cheekbones. Brown curls spring out from her head, a hairstyle that hints at a spunky personality. “You sound as though you knew Billy. Did your family vacation here?”

  Presley shakes her head. “This is my first visit to Hope Springs. I never met Billy personally, but I know his music.” She places her hand on her chest. “I love his music, actually.”

  “Me too.” Stella stares up at the mountains, a faraway look on her face.

  Presley waits for Stella to say more. When she remains quiet, she wonders what is running through Stella’s mind. Is she conflicted about her feelings for her father?